Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

I lick my lips, feeling distant and impotent and lost. And, yes, a little bit angry, too. Because, dammit, I don’t want to see him in pain, not if I can soothe him.

But that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? That’s really my greatest fear.

Not that I’m unable to soothe Jackson, but that he would rather bear this burden alone.

Screw it.

I toss the covers aside and walk to him, his T-shirt that I slept in brushing my thighs. I slide my arms around his waist from behind so that I am pressed against him, my cheek against his back. I breathe in the scent of him, male and musk and just the tiniest bit of fabric softener. It’s clean, maybe even a little bit domestic. But on Jackson, it’s also very, very sexy.

My hands are at his waist, and it would be so easy to slide them down. To stroke him and make him hard. To play and coax. To seduce and please.

To make him so hot and so hard that he wants nothing but me, can think of nothing but me. To tease him until he picks me up and throws me onto the bed in a violent explosion that not only consumes us both but destroys the shadows that have crept in between us, banishing them with fire and heat and light.

But even that’s not what I want. Not really. What I want—what I need—is for Jackson to come to me. To use me as he has in the past to soothe his wounds and make himself whole.

So instead of sliding my hand down to close around his cock, I simply hold still, clinging to this man who I love and need. And hoping against hope that he is not slipping away from me.

A moment passes, and then another. I hear the dog barking on the back lawn and the high-pitched squeal of Ronnie’s laughter followed by the lower tones of her great-grandmother and Stella, the housekeeper-turned-nanny.

Jackson is perfectly still, but then his hands rise to his waist to close over mine, so that as I hug him from behind, he is holding me in place. I close my eyes, relishing the strength of his touch. But then he very gently pulls my hands apart and steps out of the circle of my arms.

I hug myself tight against the loss of his warmth. But it’s no use. I am chilled to the bone. Lost, angry, afraid. And very, very alone.

He goes and sits on the edge of the bed, then scrubs his hands over his face. When he gazes up at me, he looks so tired that all of my anger and insecurity seems to spill out of me, and all I want to do is console him. I go to him, dropping to the ground in front of him and pressing my hands to his knees.

His smile, though tremulous, warms me, and when he gently brushes my cheek with his thumb, I almost weep with relief.

“Oh, hell,” he finally says. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“A bit,” I say, and am rewarded with just a hint of a smile. “But you’ll get through this. We’ll get through it.”

“All I wanted was to take my daughter home.”

His words seem to twist inside me, as if they are just slightly off-kilter. It takes me a moment to realize why. “Wanted?” I repeat.

“I called Amy first thing this morning.” His voice is flat and emotionless, as if he is working very hard to keep it that way.

“Oh.” Amy Brantley is his family law attorney in Santa Fe. She’s the one who filed his petition to establish paternity and parental rights. And although I have yet to meet her in person, I know that she’s the one who will be setting the hearing on that petition as soon as possible. “So what did she say? When are you setting a court date?”

I see a shadow in his eyes. “We’re not. We’re going to wait.”

“Wait? But . . .” I try to gather my thoughts even as I realize that I should have expected this. Because I know what this means. This means he doesn’t think he’ll be around to take care of her.

“Oh, god, Jackson.” I don’t mean for it to, but my voice is full of dread and fear.

“No,” he says, then repeats it more firmly. “No. I’m not giving in. I’m not folding. Not even close. But I’m also not taking risks with my little girl. What if the worst were to happen and I end up in a jail cell? Megan may be her legal guardian right now, but she won’t be once my rights are established. Would a California court send Ronnie back to New Mexico? To Megan? A former guardian with a host of mental health issues who’s checked herself into a center while she tries to get better? Or to Betty, an elderly great-grandmother? Maybe. But more likely she’ll end up in foster care. I can’t risk that. I won’t risk that.”

I want to protest. To point out how much this means to him. To beg him to believe that he’ll get through this. But I fear that saying those words will only highlight the extent of his loss. So all I say is, “I’m sorry.”